


how does it feel to drown on dry land

by Yukitori



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Based on Personal Experiences, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Abuse, MORE PROJECTING, Manic Episode, Self-Harm, at this point im abusing oikawa, like this isnt a fun experience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:21:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25666609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yukitori/pseuds/Yukitori
Summary: Oikawa can always tell when it starts getting bad. This time he knew it was going to be really bad.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	how does it feel to drown on dry land

**Author's Note:**

> a lot of this is just writing about my experience with manic episodes, its based on one of my worst ones. its not fun, theres no real resolution. (*´∀｀) there are very triggering themes in this so please make sure youre mentally stable enough to read this

Oikawa can always tell when it starts getting bad. This time he knew it was going to be really bad.

As soon as he woke up that morning he could feel the anticipation, the water building up in the dam. Every small noise felt amplified, it would echo and rattle around in his brain, filling up his thoughts with deafening noise. But when you’re stuck with this mental illness for the rest of your life the most you can do is deal with it. Every waking moment his body just vibrates and aches with the urge to just let go.

School was torture, so much noise, so many things going on. He thanked a God he didn't believe in that practice was canceled for the day following gym renovations. His facade was lacking today, he could tell. The silence from him following a joke or an opportunity to make something about him didn't go unnoticed by his teammates. Iwaizumi asked him what was wrong and all he had the effort to say was “a lot”. From being childhood friends Iwaizumi knew that pushing any further wouldn't be of any help to Oikawa. Every tick of the hand on the clock pushed Oikawa further and further, testing his patience. He couldn’t wait to go home. Eventually, the day ended and without a word, Oikawa left, hopefully unnoticed. The walk home felt ten times longer, each step he wanted to break out into a run and dive in front of a passing car. Each second he would see how easily he could end it. 

When he finally reached his room, he let everything out. He was thankful that he was the only one home because the scream he let out would've been too loud to ignore. The mounting anxiety and anticipation flowed out, filling him with every feeling, every emotion. He turned on a playlist to drown out the contradicting voices in his head telling him that he's not good enough, that he should die. But having the same voice telling him how it was everyone else, how no one treated him right, how no one valued him, how he's the only person he needs. With how much he bottled up that day he should've known that any noise or any songs would be more harmful. Every lyric he grasped and clung to as if it was the only thing he had. Each song changing themes from being filled with anger to reveling in the feeling of having no one to screaming about wishing to be dead. Everything he heard, he felt, each feeling felt right but also that it wasn't quite the right emotion. 

Being alone was his worst mistake in this, being allowed to let his mind wander, digging out his deepest insecurities and flaws. Where now he’d blow every mistake out of proportion. How he was a terrible friend for lying to the people that he forced himself to believe cared about him, or how he was horrible for saying the things he said or the things he did. He tried to fight against that familiar urge to drag that thin piece of sharp metal against his skin to release these feelings that he can't quite identify. The thought process that followed after was unpleasant, memories popping up of the blood trickling down his legs, down his arms, wrists and fingers. The coolness of the deep crimson contrasting against his burning hot pale skin. The guilt following and trying to swallow it down with cheap vodka. It really wasn't wise to drink at a time like this, but when did he ever make wise decisions. 

Each and every time he closed his eyes, all he could see is his skin bruised and smeared with blood. His hands, unnoticed, made their way into his hair, pulling and tugging, trying everything to keep him back in his body. He felt like he was floating away, his grip on reality now just hanging by a single thread and that one thought, broke him. “There's nothing on the other side” Now his urge to feel numb again, to be relieved of this destructive mind was all he could think of. If you were to press your ear against the locked door and were able to listen past the music you would hear a soft chant, the words changed often but were persistent. 

It sounded almost like a prayer that wouldn't reach any deities' ears. To Tooru his sobs and words drowned out everything, he wished they would drown out the thoughts in his head. The images of him destroying himself, smelling the burning of skin along with the stale smell of a cigarette. Or even him seeing the veins and muscle hidden under his skin, ripping it up with dull fingernails or tearing it up with a blade.

He smelt the stench of iron, of blood, it comforted him the way a father would after screaming and threatening would, it terrified him. He felt the noose, he saw in the darkness, wrap around his throat. Maybe he would eventually come to realize it was his own cold fingers trying to choke out the sobs forcing their way through his throat. Were the day following he would barely be able to hide the bruises. The literal choking felt like nothing compared to the choking he felt thinking about his actions. Trying to justify his own impending death, justify taking the easy way out. Tooru finally let out another pained yell, screaming for release, for comfort, for something to stop his pounding heart and racing thoughts. 

He started pulling at his hair, digging his fingernails into his scalp, breaking through the skin, and ripping more than a few hairs. Nothing could distract him from the burning in his lungs and his seemingly frozen skin. It's terrifying when you can't get in a breath, terrifying when you can feel your stomach bile rise in your esophagus without enough room to be let out. That fear of suffocation, not being able to get in a thought other than that you're going to die and not only are you going to die, you're going to die alone. Alone with nothing but that devil in your head forcing you to live through previous pain, forcing you to understand but just enough that you're left with half of the real truth. Maybe he was meant to be alone, maybe things were meant to be this way, certain people were just meant to be tortured every waking moment of their life. And it's this thought process that worsened things, the terrifying visions seemed to become more realistic, more real. 

He felt this itch under his skin, it was too much, he scratched and dug at the creeping of his skin, that invisible pressure. He wanted out, he wanted relief, he wanted it to be over, he wanted to be dead. The stunted, choked sobs turned into more hiccupped and broken cries. Tooru felt the dull aching pain in his chest, some combination of heavy emptiness and crushing guilt, guilt for something he doesn't even know. Maybe it was his thoughts, maybe it was his mistakes. It doesn't really matter now, all he could think of was drawing his own blood, making these visions reality. Taking the cool piece of metal and pressing it into his skin, letting his life essence flow out and remind him of true physical pain and not his rotting mind playing tricks on him. The itch seemed to reach deeper and into his chest where it just turned into a searing pain. 

It's hard to think clearly when you're drowning on dry land. 

All Tooru could do at this point was curl into a ball on the hardwood floor of his cold, dark room. Dry heaving and gasps could be heard throughout the empty house. The sounds of a dying soul. It maybe took minutes or hours for him to finally stop crying, stop hyperventilating. He decided to draw a hot bath and take to his nightly ritual, a small comfort. Grabbing the well familiarized box and holding the antidote to his still pent up emotions. 

He knows it's bad, how destroyed his skin was and the habit in general. Trying to stop takes so much effort, it forces him to find some other way of release. It's so difficult, it hurts so much, he wishes he could stop and get better. He wishes it wasn't like this, it's just that it's the only thing that works right now. He only stops when he can pull himself into the scalding hot water and feel something else for a change. Somehow even the water cant penetrate the heavy guilt and numbness he feels in its entirety. He settles for the way it warms his cold skin and soothes the physical aches.

Maybe that's just a good enough start to getting better.


End file.
